I lost my mind in the dark

I'm sure the demons are laughing
Their evil little horns off
As I haunt the house at night.
In my bed I toss and turn
As they torment me
Till I'm tanlgled in damp sheets.
Leave Me Alone!
Let me SLEEP!
I want to screem into the dark.
Tickled by my torture they gigle
From the corners of the bedroom.
I'm going mad, aren't I?
I pray.
I pray for peace and calm.
I pray for sleep.
They laugh as if my pleas are punchlines.
These invisible menances screatch with mirth.
I've gone crazy, haven't I?

A Murder of Crows

With a heart aflutter with nerves I don't know how to start the conversation. How do I dare to ask the man I married whether he still loves me. 

What a ridiculous question. Can I honestly expect a truthful response?

Would he say "of course I do", because it's the safe answer?

Would he become instantly irritated, see my question as an attempt to initiate an awkward conversation or start a fight?

Would he start a fight to avoid the debate of how we would know whether we still love each other?

Love each other. Implying that I love him as well. Can I risk him spinning the question back round to me, and asking me if I love him?

I wouldn't have an answer. I don't know if I do. If I ever did. I don't understand love. 

Yet I need to know if he loves me. Laughable almost, isn't it. 

Ok, let's try to decode and define love. Again. 

Love for ones children and parents. That ones easy. Siblings too. They're practically a biological extension of one. You love them like you love your own limbs. And losing them and living without any one them would be as inconceivable as tragically losing and arm or leg. People would tell you things will be ok and that life will go on. But after losing a parent or child, life doesn't quite go on the same as before. It's impossible.


So then you meet Mr or Mrs Right. And you fall "inlove". Great feeling. Hormones are happy. Then as a result of this chemical imbalance and toxic high you find yourself doing some unexpected things. Like getting married and promising to be eternally faithfully and respectful. 

In some cases people manage to maintain the joy and intimacy, to remain wrapped up in the warm glow of honeymoon for decades. 

But mostly not. More often the passion cools, the glow fades and you're left facing the stone cold reality of an unsuitable partner. 

Is that where I'm at?

Did I marry this man while on a hormonal high. Was my grey matter rendered unreliable by my rose coloured view of the future at the time?

Or did I really believe that as a person, he was indeed suitable and shared my dreams for the future? Was I sure that he was the only one I wanted to start a family with and grow old with? What made me think it was possible? What made me so sure I was right? It couldn't have been all false feeling based on happy hormones. 

Looking at his sleeping face I will myself to feel something. I'm frustrated and angry at how lazy my emotions are. No bloody butterflies. Only the creaking as mild irritation strains to escape from my clenched jaw. 

Fucking hell! What does love feel like. If he died tonight, would I grieve? For him? Or for my children who would be devastated by the loss of their father?

Would I miss him?

Dammit I want to feel something. And I want him to feel something too.

I want to feel the stupid glow and nauseating joy of romance  novels and movies. 

I want to shake him awake and tell "Bloody fucking hell let's do things we did back when we liked each other, or is it too late? "


There the flutter is back. Not the excited butterfly type. But the frantic flapping of  foreboding crows.


If I woke him and asked him if he loved me ... I'm terrified of what he's answer would be.

Watch net

Yoh. Pilates oppe Sondag oggend. In die woorde van die geagte Michaelangelo, (die een uit Lambertsbaai) "jou ma se purringbak! "

Ek swiet my smartie af en die spagetti goes oppie stage le^ so relaxed mens sal dink haar siel het haar lyf verlaat. Maar dan skieluk move die geramte. Ja sy is so maar. Nogal vol style en grace strek sy vooruit om haar tonne te touch. En ek dink daais mos maklik. Ek kan daai doen.  En ek try maar die blerrie broodbluk wat op my skoot le^ is heeltemal innie pad. En ek kannie eens aasem kry nie want die twee melk kanne voor my gesig versmoor my. Sies, pathetic. Ek kyk so langs my en sien die auntie sukkel en kreun ook. Voelie uintlik better nie want mens kan sien die tannie trek al pension. Het sieker kinders wat ouer as ek is.  

Yoh wanneer het ek so vet geword?  Ai, baatnie ek try nou om uit te figure pressies watter chiproll my oor die gewigs lein gestood het nie. Ek kannie eers by my vet tonne uitkom nie.

Ek moet weer begin haardloop. Al kom ek laaste. Al skut my vet. Ek gaan die vet rolle afskut. Fok man, twee jaar terug het ek gese^ "I'm bringing sexy back". Sexy het haar way verloor maar watch die space. Watch net.  

I was brave

Tonight I read a poem out loud for the first time. A poem I wrote. Out loud to people I didn't know. And scarier still, to people I do know. In a moment of weakness I confessed my sins in rhyme. I allowed people to see the side of me that shouldn't be.  It's a moment of weaknesses cos I buckled under the pressure of secrets. For once I just wanted to be me. To be seen as the real me. To indulge this idea that I'm an artist.
Is it weakness or bravery to finally ... take a risk and reveal what I think and feel?
I did it. I read out loud. I'm kinda proud that I took that step.  No one cringed. They clapped.
And it's not the recognition of others that I'm celebrating right now, but the fact that I had the guts to give it a try. I was amongst artists and found my place, stood my ground and shared. I dared. I did it.

Caged birds and crazy girls

Tempted to up the dosage on my pills. Will two cilif take the sadness away faster? Because I desperately need this feeling to stop. It's so frustrating not knowing why you're sad. I feel the threat of tears. The pressure builds painfully in my chest but it's as if the tears won't burst free until they have a reason. I need this release. I need the relief. So I wish I could just cry already. 

I understand why troubled girls cut themselves. I understand now that when you cut skin and the blood flows what a relief it must be. I'm not saying I would ..... But I do get it. 

I think I could scratch though. Scratch my skin broken and open to ease the itch. What itch? The itch of anxiety. The restlessness I can't calm, when my heart thumps and my stomach flutters and my skin crawls and my brain spins and I think I'm going to die from the craziness and I almost wish I would die in that moment just to stop the craziness. And I can't cry because the cry is stuck somewhere in my throat, so I scratch at my neck. Scratch hard at my naked shoulders. The clawing hurts but the pain is better than the itching. By far better than the itching. And when it hurts I forget for a second about the itch and the flutter and the thump. But only for a second because there again is the flutter and the thump and the itch and I want to die. 

No, not actually. But I would settle for a cry. 

Maya Angelou might have known "why the caged bird sings", but I know why the crazy girls cut.

Ever feel ..?

Ever feel that you're good 
As long as you give,
As long you never need? 

You always pour in so much 
Of yourself till you have 
Nothing left for yourself. 

Yet still, in struggling 
Not to fail, you feel 
Like a failure for stuggling.

Demons of the dark

Slumber? What's that? The hours between midnight and 4am are reserved for nightmares, migraines and insomnia.  Not sure how long it's been this way. Not sure how much longer I can cope. 

Finally around 4 or 5 in the morning, as the birds and traffic noises start, I usually slip into a heavy trance. The kind of coma that leaves you utterly exhausted when you wake. I know I need to get up. But my eyelids are painfully nailed shut. I cry for someone to help me shake off this suffocating sleep but my throat is parched and my tongue too tired to utter a sound. I feel I'm drowning in drowsiness. My brain registers remotely that I need to move but the lead in my limbs can't push off the hundreds of demons that sit on my chest, choking the breath from my body, forcing me back into the fog. 

The themes of bad dreams like vines around my wrists try piercing my veins. I feel the bed swallowing me whole, again. All the pressure, I feel I could explode. I fight. I fight. I fight. I try. I cry. Finally tears escape my stubborn eyes and dissolve whatever evil spell had them sealed shut against the morning light. 

But the fight has left me breathless, drained and ill. I'm supposed to rise and shine and charge into the day light and prove myself. 

Myself. I don't even know who I am. I'm a tired, hollow shell. A body with barely enough life in it to muster a smile for the sleeping angels, peacefully cured up in their beds. 

And that's why I fought like villain to escape the clutches of depression. Because these little babies need a mother. My little children need a smiling mom to help them get their day started with kisses and sweet whispers. 

Though my soul hangs heavily, limp inside my chest I must smile. Kisses and smiles. Kisses and smiles will help me make it through today, again. 

The things that keep me up at night - The Butterfly Effect

Have you ever watched the movie The Butterfly Effect? Such a beautiful name for such an awful movie. A frustrating and awful movie. 

I find myself thinking about that movie tonight because that's almost what life feels like these days. Like I'm watching a remake of a horror movie and I'm powerless to change the outcome. 

As hard as I've tried to rewrite the plot the ending remains out of my control. I feel as if I'm tied to a chair and forced to watch. Painfully restrained n forced to watched my worst fears play out in real life. 


Only it's way, way worse this time. Worse than when I lived through it. Because this time I'm filled with dread for my dear children. My babies. 


Oh the irony. My son and daughter. My Id and Ego, my Vladimir and Estragon.

I always say I see so much of myself in my son. The guilt kills me. All my anxiety, neurosis, my total lack of self esteem all passed on to this poor, undeserving boy. And my daughter. My innocent, loving little girl. So giving and caring. It's exactly that kindness that makes you vulnerable. 

What am I going to do?

I can't ignore what I see. I may not.  I can not. 

I can not risk my children. I will not risk my children. I have to protect them, at all cost. I'm not helpless. They are. They rely on me to protect them.

I have to be brave. I have to stand up and stop this movie. I will not let this evil plot continue. 

I Promise Pain

Not in a good space. Actually quite a mess. Trying to hold the pieces together in between the pages of my colouring book. My heart's frozen with fear. Fear of saying something and the disgusting mess it could cause. And fear of what could happen if I don't. The worst could happen. And that can't be allowed. I know first hand the damage that that causes. I still live with the ever lasting consequences. I'll never heal from this hate and never be free of the fear. 

I can barely contain the violence that boils beneath the surface. 

Not in a good space and screaming inside my head "you stupid fucking idiots". The overwhelming anger nauseates me.

Deep breaths. Painful deaths. That's what they will all suffer if I even begin to think she's in danger. Every single ignorant one of them. I will burn them all alive. I promise. 

Press pause on the applause

Press pause on the applause. 

I can always count on you

To find the flaw

To flaunt the failure

To bring by down from my high. 

#nufsed

Scarlet Harlot

Saddened by the sins she carries
That trail like a veil
Behind her,
She walks on
In the shadows
Of her shame
As they call her names
That pelt her,
Scarlet Harlot. 
The look of disgust
On the faces she trusted
Not to judge
But who spit on her
Words so vile that
She tastes bile 
In the tears she cries. 
Accused of so many lies
She can't recall them all,
Can't recall her own name
Cos for so long 
She's only ever been
Slut, bitch, whore,
Whore, bitch, slut.
She was right to flinch
From the tender touch,
Fool to think the thoughtful man
Could understand or care. 
But there it is: 
stamped property of So-and-so,
Labelled as: "filthy ho".
No one's fault
But her own. 
You can't escape your past
She should have know. 

Sad tale

I grow stale of this tale
And with deep regret
I try to forget a kindness,
a confidence
and the care of friend.
Cannot mend this tear in time,
This passionate crime,
The cause of chaos and bitterness and hurt.
We spew blame and toss dirt.
Now that all is lost and nothing is left.
We're bereft, of a friend.
What an awful price to pay
For the stupid games we play.

Buddha said

I model his marking. Deep purple thumbprints on the inside of each thigh. For someone to take you with such force must mean that they want you with some intensity. And that's all I want really. To be wanted. Really wanted. Buddha said that all suffering is caused by desire. My desire to be desired has left me bruise n bleeding. How can something be both so terrible and wonderful at the same time?

Loose thoughts

Like the loose change in the consol of a car, so loose and un-useful are my thoughts. Random I suppose would be the word. 

While working on a school assignment with my seven year old this evening, he said to me that that he would like to be a scientist. I was impressed. I asked what kind of scientist he would be and what he would do? He's response was that he would like to find a cure for pimples. I have annoying and stubborn adult acne. I suppose my face has inspired my son. 
I once read "it's hard to face the problem when your face is the problem".

That got me thinking. If I didn't have these acne scars would I be pretty?

I also found myself wondering about that evolutionary theory today while watching my "own people" bid farewell to loved ones leaving for hajj. I wondered if some of my species, specifically of my own community are as evolved as we like to believe. Their irrational and emotional behaviour ... well ... I could see why it's thought that man came from monkey. The dumb animal is still in some of us. 

And then husbands. They don't make husbands like they used to. Where are the men who could DIY? Guys who could shut off the water at the stop cork when a pipe bursts. Not run for the phone to call their fathers in law while the place flooded. 

These days husbands think DIY means downloading an app on your phone by yourself. 

Random ... I know. 

A is for ...

Today I had lunch by myself. When sitting alone I think about the strangest things. Like in the Garden of Eden, where Adam and Eve had all sorts of everything to choose from, they chose an apple. An Apple. Really? 

Ok, yes I get it's all metaphorical. But why could they not have chosen an avocado for instance. An avo is far more sustaining. Far more exciting than a boring apple. To think we got thrown out of paradise for an apple. 

Guess what I'm having for lunch? I'll give you a clue, it ain't an apple. 

A second opinion

I need your opinion. 

You know sometimes people look at things from different angles and see different pictures? Very different perspectives. 

So tell me what you see. 

Scene one:
She waits for her husband for hours in the cold. Eventually she sees him coming round the bend. She grabs the hands of her little kids, excited to show them their dad finishing his marathon. But less than an hour later, her husband turns to tell her something but calls her by another woman's name. 

He claims he'd been thinking of his cousin who's birthday it was. But she knows that it's coincidentally also the name of a woman he works with. 

Scene two:
She wakes up to hear him laughing on the phone. She hears him ask the person on the line if they needed a hair dryer. He insists it's no bother and that he'll bring a hair dryer. Moments later he leaves for work, taking with him his wife's hair dryer. 

She asked him that night who the hairdryer was for. He honestly replied that it was for the colleague mentioned above. 


Scene three:
She works herself to the bone, fighting a losing battle to maintain order in their house while the domestic is away. He barely notices because he barely looks up from his cell phone or which ever game he plays on his laptop. 

Scene four:
While he's out she quickly tries to tidy the house. While picking up laundry on his side of the bed she finds the backing of a silver earring.  Not like any she or her daughter owns. Who's could it be? How'd it end up on the floor beside their bed?



Tell me what you see. Are we watching a movie of an idiot wife who refuses to see the facts? Or is it just a string of random events that actually mean nothing?

Occupational Hazard

Foretold is forewarned they say. He tells me that she will be joining him on Sunday, so I will see them together. I think I feel the table shift. No, it’s the ground that moved. No, it’s neither.
Smile idiot, smile. Laugh as if  it’s all very amusing.
It is hilarious actually.
Stupid child. You can’t get jealous and insecure because she’s going to be there.
He’s worried. He thinks you might “act up”. That you might make things awkward.
Will I?
No.
Occupational hazard, I laugh as i think to myself.
When you play in this league you need to be prepared for these situations.
I’m not saying I’m not affected. I’m saying I’ve learnt to suck it up. Make like a big girl and be gracious.

Suck it up Sunshine.

The Wizard, the Oracle and the Husband

For those who missed the metaphor the wizard is the psychologist. It seemed like a fitting title at the time. You know, hoping she could give me a brain, heart, courage and help me find my way home. 

That being said I ain't been to see no wizard since .... well, months. Does that mean I'm doing well? Or does it mean I'm doing denial well?

 I see the Oracle regularly. That be the psychiatrist. But then if I don't go he cuts off my supply of happy pills. And as my husband diplomatically brought to my attention, without my meds I'm a bit of a bitch. 

I bit my tongue and didn't explain that it was he who brought out the bitch in me. 

Now see, the fact that I didn't lose it and bite his head off should prove that I'm not a chemically induced crazy woman. I'm a very patient, very controlled and very restrained wife of an idiot, bastard pain in the ass. 

If ever there was a man in need of performance enhancing drugs it would be him. I sorely need a real man in my life. NOT what you're thinking. I just wish this husband could take some kind of energy pill so he wouldn't sleep all the time, and so he could clean, drill, fix and fit shit around the house. 

Should I consider trading sexual favours for curtain rails (since I've blown most of my savings on bathroom remodeling)? Do you think it would work? A blow job for and drill job. Any one out there willing and able to fit a heated towel rail? Wait, did you think I meant buy his services with sex? Like I haven't tried that already. 

But seriously, the pools not green but black. The leftover bathroom building supplies are all over the lounge. Does he expect me to carry away tiles and cement? 

Ah forget it. What good's complaining gonna do. 

The point way up front was that I'm back on the pill and the Oracle says I'm looking good. He's words "not at all like someone who need a psychiatrist". So Yay for me :-).

Hunger

From a different kind of hunger
My mind wonders
My fingers itch to unhitch your belt
My skin craves what it once felt.
If I could rest
My cheek on your naked chest
And breath in your smell,
... All would be well.

Daddy

Since I seem to be dealing with my demons I guess I should tell you about my dad. I suppose he loved me ones, long ago.  I vaguely remember playful teasing. But what I recall more was walking on eggshells, never making the grade, and constant confidence shattering criticism.

I recall with clarity the sustained level of anxiety that led my brothers and I, and later my mother, to developing a communications code to alert each other of his foul moods and temper.

Upon arriving home one would innocently enquire from a sibling what the weather was. The answer, "mild", "bewolk" or "donnerweer" would give you an idea of whether it was safe to surface or run for cover.

Along side the weather system we used non verbal comms as well.  Puffing your cheeks and pointing your eyes in the direction of "Bolla Wange" was a warning to tread lightly and fly under the radar.

As we got older I think things got easier.  Probably because we were able to get out of the house - escape the ever critical eye.

Getting married gave me an escape but came with a considerable amount of guilt - guilt for those I left behind. For my brothers, but more so for my poor mother.

Now I need to clarify that the abuse he dished out wasn't physical. Not towards my mom anyway. He wouldn't dare. My brother's were beaten  with the fist, kicked in the stomach and ribs and I'd been slapped over the years. But I think one could almost dismiss all that as harsh discipline (Ok maybe not the way he once beat, punched and kicked my skinny teenage brother for an offence I can't even recall).
The emotional abuse had deep and far reaching damage.

My youngest brother I often felt suffered the worst.  Thank goodness for the "water of a duck's back" defence he developed. This little brother turned to drugs at a very young age and didn't finish university. But after a few false starts has managed to find himself a decent, secure job, has a wonderful intelligent wife, owns property and lives a fairly clean life.  He's a bit unconventional, but none of us are surprised by that. He lives outside of town in a small farming community. He has cats and dogs and owls instead of children and passionately pursues Kung Fu of all things. Seriously.

T Middle child syndrome personified is my other brother, five years younger than me. Think this one swallowed up all his anger and issues. I’m sort of waiting for that one to take a shotgun into a crowded mall and blow it all to shit. But hey, I might be wrong.

This brother tried hard from an early on to break free by gaining his independence. Learnt to drive, got his own car, got a part time job – multiple jobs at times and worked himself to the bone.

I think my dad drilled into him the need to be super hard working, diligent, martyr. I remember he once worked in a store that opened around 5am or something ridiculous like that. He had to leave home in the middle of the night practically to open and slave away, then rush to campus for class and then weekends suffer a gruelling catering job, from Friday afternoon to Sunday night.

And then on top of working hard this dude trains hard too. I think my father successfully convinced the two of us that we may never admit physical weakness. To acknowledge injury or fatigue made us pathetic. So this brother was an awesome sportsman (though neither of my parents ever went to watch him, ever). Brilliant cricketer, rugby player, cyclist, go-kart racer, you name it, this kid had the shinning medal to prove how hardcore he was.

But then being good at sport wasn’t enough for him. He had to know everything about it as well. Guess what he became – Biokinetisist, qualified fitness instructor and accredited sports coach in multiple disciplines. (Yes I’m super proud of both my brothers).

One Saturday afternoon I went with him to a rugby match, to watch him play. We were both in our 20’s then. Halfway through the game he got tackled pretty badly. We strongly suspected that his arm had been broken. It was clear he was in terrible pain. Yet he went right back to finish the game. (Gotta tell  you about the night  I broke my ankle). And after the game he refused to let me drive him home – the injured asshole drove himself.

Anyways, middle child finished he’s studies and got a job in the defense force. It seemed so fitting: Mr. Anal, hardcore, Man’s Man ended up in the army.

Now married with three kids, neat home and tended lawn, driving his huge family vehicle, I have to wonder are my two brother successful brothers so successful because of my father’s drilling or despite it. Growing up, what was all the fuss about? The way he treated us one would thing we were the sort destined to end up on the streets and me a crack whore. We were told so often that we would never amount to anything.

And then Mom.

How did he manage to reduce a strong, beautiful, intelligent woman to the loss, haggard huisvrou she is now? Overweight and ailing, self-conscious of her own bulk and so out of touch with the world. She’s spent her life bent around his moods all these years, bearing the brunt of his bitterness to protect us.

I know she prefers when he’s not around. Jeez we all do. Terrible thing to say I know. But things are so much more peaceful then.  I hate how dependent she is on him – he is her financial provider and she is the subservient stay-at-home wife. She is stuck. She’s been stuck for so long. When she became sick, we were young and she was dependent on him. And now she is still sick and it’s just too late for her to leave.

And I think she feels sorry for him. I think she married him because she felt sorry for this abandoned, damaged young man, little did she know that you can never love them better – they will always be broken and end up breaking you too.

I do love my dad. I really do. He’s spent his life and all his energy working to provide for us. I could never repay him for that. And I hate myself for the way I hate him too. I hate how he still torments all if us. And still the guilt eats me because my brothers and I have escaped. But my mother is still stuck. I see her wasting away. I see her coming apart. I see him wearing her down.

Tonight she is sick again. And what does he do? Berates her and lectures her. Blames her practically. He’s upset because she went a doctor, for an injection for pain and then had an unforeseen allergic reaction the medication. The pain was originally in scar tissue from an old operation she had. The injection triggered a recently diagnosed condition – a disorder that could kill her if not managed. While he lay there barely conscious he scolds her.

I guess I have lots more to write … lots more bitter memories … but will stop there for now.

YOU

I'm the monster you moulded.
My fresh flesh compressed 
by your filthy fingers. 

I'm the chaos you created. 

A child you defiled to 
calm your sick cravings. 

I'm the wreckage you left behind

And denied when I tried 
to cry for help.

I'm the product of your perversity,

Now judged harshly for 
performing only what you taught me.
 

I'm the wrecked remains,

a hollow human where any good
never stood a chance.

You're the secret I kept 

as I cringed and wept 
and prayed for peace in the dark. 

You're the reason 

I'm going insane with shame and pain
and fear and hate. 

And you’re the reason vile vengeance

flows through my veins
keeping me from living a normal life.

Undeserving

Who ever said "cry, it will make you feel better" was talking kak. How is a face splitting headache and a blocked nose feeling better? And on top of that, what did crying do to solve the problem? Buggerall!

The anger still boils inside me. Frustration still threatening to make me explode. And the disbelief and disgust. Disbelief that I once thought that this man was worthy. That he had a good heart, kindness, vision. Disgust at what he turned out to be. And disgust at myself for falling for it and dragging these two innocent souls in with me. 

He doesn't deserve them, these beautiful, wonderful angels. Every day with them is an adventure. Every conversation an education. These little hearts have taught me so much about loving and forgiveness. On my knees, I see the world they way they see it. 

And while I down here, on my knees, dear God, I pray, please protect them. Always.  Please make them forget any insecurity he tried to hammer into them.  Let them know that they're absolutely perfect, and that at least one parent loves them, unconditionally. 

Evil has a name

I've put you in the past. 
Stay, I pray. 
You haunt my happiness, 
Leaving me literally  
Hopeless.
Faithless.

I'm tired of hating you 
and fearing the world.
What is it going to take to burn your bitterness from my soul? 
You could never return the innocence you stole. 

And I'm angry. Aching and angry at the power you hold. 
But this story will be told. 
I refuse to keep carrying this burden of shame. 
Evil has a name. 
Is it ... 

Waking up in paradise

I imagine that this is what paradise sounds like as I listen to the birds chirp in dialects. With my heavy eyelids closed I picture the view outside. The banana palms in the forefront and the lush, green hills in the background, rolling away beneath the clear blue sky.
The noisy monkeys swinging from balcony to balcony bring my thoughts back to my room.
It's Monday, 1st June. It's officially Winter and I'm lying in bed covered by only a crisp, white linen sheet.
Yes, this is paradise but I think I'll snooze some more. Paradise will still be there later and getting to sleep in on a Monday morning, well that's just heavenly.

You live in my fantasy

You live in my fantasy.  Like the  miniature couple in a snow globe, our world is perfect. Our passion is protected. Sometimes things get a little shook up, but within minutes the dust settles and calm is restored. Wouldn't it be wonderful to live in such a perfect bubble?

Every night I eagerly crawl into bed, looking forward to escaping to my dreams. There you're always waiting for me.  There you always smile at me with love and patience.

My days I spend thinking of you. In all my mundane tasks I wonder what it would be like to share them with you. Chats while doing chores, sharing meals, sharing a bed ...

You live in my fantasies. I wonder if I live in yours too? 

More. . .

More then this 
I cannot do.
More than me 
I cannot be. 
I have tried 
My best for you.
More than this 
I will not do. 

I have tried
And I have failed
Tried and tried
To no avail.

Your standards
I will not meet
Finally 
I admit defeat. 

Things fall apart

There's a poem buy William Butler Yeats, called The Second Coming. Lately I hear the words over and over in my mind. "Things fall apart. The center cannot hold".

I think probably because that's how I feel at the moment. I'm coming apart. I'm finding it hard to hold it together. 

 "The ceremony of innocence is drowned". I know I'm misinterpreting the poem. But phrases from it speak clearly to my current situation. I feel like my innocence has drowned. I've crossed over to the sick and sadistic dark side. 

 "The best lack all conviction while the worst are full of passionate intensity". Whose left to help me save my soul? Why? It's far more pleasurable to savour my skin. 

I'm sure none of the above makes any sense in any context. 

I miss you

 "I miss you", she typed and holds her breath for a response. When none comes she laughs at her ridiculousness, embarrassed by her foolish expectation. 

"What were you really expecting doofus? Next you're probably going to tell him you love him hey?" 

Bet you think

Bet you think this post is about you. Don't you. 
Well maybe it is. Or maybe it's not. 
Maybe it's about no one I've ever met.
Or someone I've always known. 
And then again you turned out to be both of those. 
The stranger I've known half my life. 
The man who knows my past but won't be part of my future. 
Like fireworks I flash anger then sympathy. 
Grief and gratitude
Longing and stubborn denial.
And then I admit, understanding. 
With downcast tear stained eyes
I apologise. 

Make believe moments

Sitting beside him on a park bench she loops her arm through his and plants a kiss on his shoulder. In these moments together she can almost fool herself into believing life is perfect. He holds her hand and she feels the calluses on his knuckles. The rough, strong hands of a working man. A real man.

Her heart swells with emotion. The bitter sweet kind. 

Dog walkers greet politely as they pass. Their four legged children giving the couple on the bench a sideways glance. 

She turns to him and says, "kiss me". She loves the way his eyes smile with mischief. His mouth finds hers. But the kiss is over before she is ready for it to be. Her eyes are still closed when he pulls away. 

She knows however he could kiss her all day and it still wouldn't be enough. She would still want more. They sit in silence for a little while longer. Soon they'd have to go. Make believe moments weren't meant to last.

Samson

If I were a suitcase
What tales would I tell?
Would I complain
About suitcase hell?
First class my ass,
While you travel in style,
I get manhandled
And tossed on a pile.

Samson was a suitcase, solid and proud. He had a metallic grey shell, an extendible handle and wheels that could take him anywhere. Samson was well travelled. He'd seen dreary, cold London and sunny Spain. Home, however, was in the closet of Bromley Place, Suburbia.

Samson heard talk about an African Safari. He had mixed feelings about a bush adventure. He wiggled his way into the deepest corner of the closet and hoped that the woman would opt for Carey, the backpack. Carey was a spontaneous, adventure loving kind of girl. Samson was sure Carey would love Africa.

Samson shuddered when he thought about his late grandfather, Samson the first. He never had the opportunity to get to know the old trunk, who was often away in deep, dark Africa. But Samson remembered the day the woman threw the dusty, brown and battered old bag out the window, into the dumpster below.

And then there was Samson the Second, he's father. Samson was still a young case, barely out of his wrapping, when Samson Sr. was reported lost. He had bravely taken on his duty to travel to Africa, but never returned.

"No", said Samson. "No Africa for me".

That's when he heard the bedroom door swing open and the man call out, "Get your suitcase love. The taxi is on its way".

Pleasure of the flesh

Oh it couldn't be true. It’s not possible for him to be the age he claims. As she glances over her shoulder she catches sight of him in the mirror, kneeling behind her. His naked body is lean and firm and in better shape than men half his age. She is amazed at the concave area of his right bum cheek. The only fault she could find, which she could barely even consider a fault, was the tiny bit of padding at his belly. But she imagines with a little work he could easily turn that into an impressive set of abs. Her musings are cut short as she feels him hard and erect,  trying to penetrate between her thighs from behind. Hot, wet pleasure shoots through her body, to her feminine core, and radiated to her extremities. She feels the flush all the way into her taught nipples.

She tilts her head as he hungrily feasts on her neck. And each time his teeth graze her skin wave upon wave of delicious joy washes over her. He seems to notice how her body was over flowing with passion and he mumbles into her ear, “oh baby, you’re so wet, you feel amazing”.

God, HE feels amazing, she thinks. She leans forward, onto all fours and tilts her bottom for him. As he pushes his way into her snug, wet  hole she lets out a loud moan of pure pleasure. Overwhelmed with indescribable sensations she is only vaguely aware of how his body shudders as he fights not to lose control. He takes a long, deep breath to calm himself but she can still feel his pulse inside her. Slowly, very slowly, with his hands securely guiding her hips, he loves her gently and deeply. She never believed her body was able to receive such pleasure. Every little movement he made inside her travelled like tendrils of magic smoke through her veins, filling her body with more pleasure than she thought she could hold. So much pleasure it almost hurt, but again an indescribable kind of wonderful pain. The kind of sweet torture that she thought was about to kill her, yet she didn’t care if it did.

On a string plaything

She has your heart on a string
And plays it like a yoyo. 
Up and Down. 
Reel you in and toss you out.
She has you wrapped around her finger
Doing skillful tricks to amuse herself.
Does the spinning make you nauseas?
Console yourself, she does need you. 
She'd be bored without you, poor little play thing. 
How would she know how well she plays
If she didn't have you to bop and drop. 
You're proof of her power.
Compliments my friend, be proud. 
You're her favourite plaything after all. 

Denial isn't just a river in Africa

Few things in life annoy me. Rude people, of course. And deliberately stupid people. I know, you think no one can be deliberately stupid. It doesn’t make sense. But they’re out there. All cozily wrapped up in their denial and plausible deniability. Telling themselves pretty stories and painting themselves as martyrs. I’m talking about intelligent people. As the scriptures say, “There are none as blind as those who don’t want to see.” And what’s girl like me to? Educate them? Oohhh hell no! You know what happens to the bearer of bad news? This messenger would rather not get shot, thank you very much. And then I wonder, does it make me a bad friend, not being honest and saying it like I see it? I don’t think so, cos I know my words will fall on deaf ears. And also, as I said, we’re dealing with intelligent people who do know what’s going on. Yep, denial isn’t just a river in Africa.

Love is for fools

I try to cry but my tears are dry
No doubt the drought 
Is to my core
For I swore
That never shall another person
Poison my heart with "feelings"
And "yearning".
I spit out these words, as vile as bile
And stop myself from rasping my tongue on the tar. 
By far more appealing a thought
Than getting caught in the snare of a love affair. 
Love is for the birds I heard. 
Love is for fools I say. 
And that I am not. 
Any more. 

Stubborn Sheep

I do get tired of being right all the time. Occasionally, being wrong might be a welcome surprise. And it’s exhausting, constantly trying to shepherd people, like stubborn sheep.

I’m the weary shepherd sat on a rock, watching her flock run amuck. Just call me “Little Bow #bleep#”. Oh wait, or would I be Little “Blow Peep”? Sorry, one of those darker shade of grey moments.

Back to the matter at hand. Yes, being right. And then, often I’m as stubborn as those sheep. I know what’s right, I see the facts, yet I too believe, like them,  that the grass is greener on the other side and that the pot of gold waits at the end of the rainbow. Oh and the classic, a leopard can change its spots. So I shouldn’t judge them sheep too harshly hey?  I imagine somewhere higher up a slope, a dejected shepherd is sitting head in hands, “raad op”, cos I refused to do what he advised.

So you wonder what was my point? Didn’t you guess by now that there is none?

Feeling ???

You know that lost feeling? Empty inside but at the same time bursting with emotions that have no word. That can't be expressed in words.

She loved him to tears

She loves him to tears. His wit and wisdom. Though she found his insecurity endearing, she couldn't understand it. He was all things all women wanted in a man. 

His strong hands handled her body with confidence and tenderness. It took self control she didn't know she had to hold herself from ravaging him.

Being with him, in the flesh, was surreal. 

His touch sent electric surges to her core, stirring sensations in places no man had ever before. 

Yes, she adored him. Her heart swelled for him. Her body ached for him. Her mind thought only of him. But she could never have him. He would never be hers. That is why she loved him to tears. 

Pedestal

Take me down from this pedestal
And put me back on the floor.
It's easier to fuck that way.
Like the bitch that I am
Down on all fours
Come on, let's play.

Cape flats culture is still culture

Hoe lyk it, ek en jy naked? I always found that line amusing. Mildly offensive, but still amusing. It's witty. 

So once again I have these incomplete but somehow related thoughts in my head. Think of a monkey swinging from branch to branch. Barely grabbing hold of a branch before letting go to grab another, moving through the trees so fast that's it’s almost impossible to keep your eyes on him. That's how I jump from thought to thought some days, to different kinds of trees. And in the dense forest, where all these trees grow, they touch each other, their branches reaching deep into those of their neighbour.

Did I just call myself a monkey?

Moving right along. On the point of culture. 

Imagine cavemen. Now I don't know much about cavemen but just imagine that to cavemen the polite thing to do when greeting was to sniff each other.  And if you detect a strong body odour perhaps it's testimony to how hard they work to fend for their families. So being smelly would be a good thing and sniffing each other might be a sign of respect, acknowledging the smelly one's hard work. 

So along comes upperty European person who sees this greeting, gets sniffed and is most disgusted by these barbaric and uncultured cavemen. 

However imagine how slanted the proud cavemen must feel when this ridiculous looking, pompously rude pale creature refuses to greet them with respect by sniffing them. I suspect they would find him as lacking in culture as he did them. 

I know this might be an elaborate and ridiculous example, but my point was merely that your culture isn't "culture". Because my tongue does more “rah” than “raaar,” does not mean I lack culture. I simply don't fit with your notion of culture. 

Escape

It was shortly after 9am when he heard her car. He opened the door to greet her and could feel the fatigue hanging heavily on her shoulders as he hugged her.

Together they made their way up the carpeted stairs to his bedroom, catching up on the hours they spent apart.

As the bedroom door closed, she started to remove her clothes, tossing it on top of  a small pile on the chair at his cluttered desk. He’d been up all night working too.

He was already in comfortable sweat pants but removed his t-shirt to pull over her head. They were both dressed for bed. He had drawn the curtains to shut out as much daylight as possible. Suddenly they were both in a hurry to be under the duvet. He held it open for her to slip in beside him. She turned her back to him and snuggled against his chest. When he kissed her head her eyes were already closed. Content, they easily fell asleep.

Confession of tired wife

Here I lay him down to rest
Careful of the knife stuck in his chest
There’s no chance he will awake
Not after the poison I had him take
There was no need for blunt force trauma
But he deserved it for all the drama.
Now natural causes no one will buy
So I need a darn good alibi
Must find a friend to corroborate
That I was out on a date.
But if I do end up a guest of the state
Hope at least I have a nice cell mate. 

Have you ever been so over loaded with back to back and double booked social events that you feel positively miserable? When what should have been a fun and exciting social engagement leaves you feeling sad and angry?

No? Oh sorry. Guess it's just me then. 

Why deny myself a cry.

Why deny myself a cry?  Just because I'm medicated I convince myself I don't suffer sadness. I make myself believe I don't have feelings. I admit I'm somewhat numbed. Blessedly so. The drugs have helped me maintain control. 

So this morning in my hurry to meet Prince Charming I forgot to pop my pills. 

And now I'm wondering if the tears trapped in my chest are because my careful chemical balance has been compromised or because I'm coming down from a manic high - post project depression, combined with being publicly scorned by my husband. 

On the topic of His Lord and Master ... I bought a dress for a dinner event. I tried  the dress on and got his stamp of approval. 

Come the day of the main event I dressed with care, applied minimal makeup and done fish net stockings to finish the look of sass and sophistication. I looked in the mirror and felt good. Until he started his mad search for an accessory he needed for the function. We had a heated argument about a hat he couldn't find. 

I left the house wondering if he was physically incapable of ever telling me I look good. 

It only got more interesting when he finally arrived at the function with some friends, to find me doing my duty as hostess: welcoming and greeting guests. With a murderous look on his face I heared him hiss, "look at you, your tits are falling out." While my dress showed a fair amount of cleavage my tits were by no means falling out. However that was far beside the point. The tone and look of total disgust had the effect of a cleaver gutting me with one ragged rip. 

The rest of the evening he alternated filthy looks and criticism with the burning humiliation of being ignored. And when I received acknowledgement for my efforts, with a standing ovation, he rolled his eyes and dismissed me. 

So Lord, if you won't let me cry to relieve the pressure of sadness, then please, please, let me exhale the memory and move on. 

I've taken my evening dose.  And with tears only slightly blurring my page I take a breath. 

Another weak one

Another lame joke, lol.

Was explaining to someone that things aren't always cut and dry. I found myself saying, that "in my mind things aren't black and white, but 50 shades of grey". I found this so hilarious that I had to sit down to finish laughing. Yah ok, its not that funny. If you know me at all you might find it a little funny. But to me it was simply hysterical.

Bad habits

Vices? I don’t drink or smoke. I have no compulsion to scratch awkward places in public or drink from the milk carton. I however do have a terrible habit of falling in love with anyone who shows me the slightest kindness. I not only become completely besotted with this individual, but I take this idea of them, that I created, and fold my heart around it. I draw them so deeply into my being, that when they no longer wish to be there, I physically ache as they fight to break free from my soul. Once I’ve lost them I’m left with the kind of hollowness that sucks your throat into your stomach, and at the same time feels like your stomach has dropped away.

Then the mention of their name, or a glimpse of anyone with even a passing resemblance, stops my heart from beating, stop my lungs from breathing, and stops my mind from processing anything outside the painful desire to through myself into their arms or erupt into steaming hot tears of hurt and longing.

Just can't get my tentacles on it

I'm like an octopus. Soon as I thought those words I cracked up laughing. There's a joke in there that's just too nasty to explain. 

So about being an octopus. I feel like I have tentacles in so many places. Too many places. Often I feel I'm being pulled in all directions. But really that wasn't my point. Lord, it's becoming hard to focus or follow through on a thought. 

Octopus. Octopus. Octopus. 
Oh forget it. 

Killing my creativity

I admit, my favourite word is “worry”. Even when all is well with the world I will worry about the cloud, rather than celebrate the silver lining. The pills are great at helping me cope. I feel emotions less sharply. Hurt that would previously have torn my soul to shreds I can now ride out on a wave of deep breathes. It still hurts. Like when I see him with her, the smirk across her exotic features rips me like claws across my throat and chest. The way he turns to pretend he didn’t see me burns in my stomach like only humiliation can.

But I breath. I don’t cry. And why should I cry? He doesn’t deserve my tears.

When I had to suffer a drive home, listening to another woman rave about how wonderfully supportive my husband was at treating all her intimate, physical aches. I didn’t cry. I smiled in mild amusement.

I quite enjoy the bubble wrap around my heart. But then on the flip side I worry. I worry whether my chemically numbed receptors are responsible for killing my creativity. Because I feel less sharply I can’t write or describe accurately what I feel.
 

I’m not done here. Proving my point too actually. I know there’s more I want to say on the topic but the thought and the words are somewhere just out of reach. Bitch.

On the Pill

No, not that kind of pill. 20mg of Cilif and 300mg of Epilim. Why did I resist so much? Why was I so reluctant to take these things? Cos I worried that it would turn me into a zombie (again). I was worried about dependence. I’m so terrified of losing any kind of independence. I feared that I would need or become addicted and that it would have to be a permanent, lifelong requirement.

But it’s been about a month . . .

I honestly feel as if the colour has been turned on and the volume turned up. I feel more myself – the me I’d be if I wasn’t scared all the time. I mean generally I push myself to be the person I want to be, buts it’s exhausting, it’s never comfortable. I know it’s insane, it makes no sense: making yourself be someone you’re not. But I know I’m not the alternative. I am not a “kloosterkoek”. I love dancing. I love sharing my creative side. I can finally acknowledge that I have a creative side. Another thing I was too scared to believe about myself. THAT’S insane! That’s why I take my happy pills. I am happier everyday because of my happy pills.

Invisible wallflower

Jeepers I felt like Jesus. You know the whole "before the cock crows twice" story? Google it. 

Anyway, so there stood I, already feeling like the frumpy wallflower when he walks right by. Right past me. Not the courtesy of a greeting. Not even the slightest hint of acknowledgement one would offer a stranger on the street. No, he walked right past me as if I was invisible. Dismissed as if I was less than invisible. As if my presence was detestable, and as though I may not dare breath the same air as her.

My heart didn't break. But my stomach burnt with humiliation. 

But I understand why. To spare her the hurt and spare him the grief. But who spares me? 

Like I said, my heart didn't break. My heart is fairly healed, fairly whole. 

But why, if we're just friends, do I still feel like the filthiest of secrets?

Because her insecurities need to be accommodated and mine don't matter. Because she's the wife and I don't exist

Disagreeable diagnosis

Jeez, I barely get to accept that I have depression when the Wizard and the Oracle concure, "Bipolar". My gut feel is that they're both wrong. I'm not well, yes. I'm depressed, yah.  But I'm not bipolar. Am I?

Their diagnosis actually causes me more anxiety. 

They explain to me how you commonly find two types of depression. The kind I thought I had, triggered by a traumatic or stressful event. Then there's the other kind, clinical depression, an illness. 

An illness. I think about that some, in relation to serious illnesses like cancer. Would one consider depression as cancer of the personality?

I feel my personality eroding some days. My identity so undefined, I don't know my own likes or dislikes, find myself incapable of making decisions. Are all these little issues related?

Will a prescribed pill help me find my will to live? I've been pretty listless and lifeless of late.  Lost my muchness is seems. 

Gotta go Google this bipolar business. I think I've been misdiagnosed. I'm not even sure I buy the clinical depression thing. I'm depressed cos assholes in my past sucked all the happiness and goodness out of my soul when I was merely a child. They forcefully ripped out my innocence and filled me up with bitterness and perversion. I have depression from the strain of shame, from a filthy secret I've borne for too long. 

I'm not bipolar. 

Mind you, I'm not rejecting the diagnosis because I'm offended by the suggestion. Not at all. I feel the condition is serious and should be shown the respect it deserves. Not carelessly thrown around like it's the next cool thing to have.

I suffer from low self esteem, a non-existent sense of self worth, and anxiety. I'm not bipolar.

The debate: whether or not to medicate

Today I seek it.
A pill to calm the chaos in my heart
To slow the flow of emotion to my brain
Something to soften the sharp shards
Of my shattered soul
To numb my need to feel and be felt, 
Stop the ache and fill the emptiness. 

So for the past few weeks I've been in therapy. Again. I broke down badly. Again. Not sure which was worse, now or then. Rock bottom, again. 

Since the second session the psychologist has been advising I try medication: antidepressants and mood stabilisers. Not keen. Been there, not pleasant. It didn't relieve the anxiety, it only dulled my senses. I was "witless". It didn't sooth the sadness. I still felt like the pressure of choked up tears was going to kill me. 

We disagree, the wizard (shrink) and I, on whether or not to medicate. I only recently and reluctantly started accepting that I have depression, as a condition. For the better part of 30 years the symptoms have been there. I just never joined the dots or saw the pattern. But as they say, the truth cannot be denied, any longer. I have depression. 

I however understand that my depression is as a result of trauma. Emotional trauma. So does it not make sense to deal with that? Help me to talk it through till I am "comfortable" with it.  I don't see the sense in medicating. How is a pill going to fix the problem? Its only going to numb the pain, isn't it? 

They say it will help me cope with the current chemical imbalance ... Cos that's what depression is - a chemical condition, something to do with nerve endings not having happy endings. 

So where are we at? The storm rages so fiercely inside me that some days I fear I'm going to explode. Then maybe medication is not such a bad thing. I'm back to worrying that the sadness is going to kill me. The anxiety strangles me and the sadness pummels me. It's going to kill me. 

 

So drugs it is. It's hard, accepting mind altering aids. I've never even smoked a cigarette, let alone done drugs. I fear even the prescribed kind. Fear I won't be in control and we all know how I need to maintain control. But that's just it, isn't it? I'm already losing control, to the storm.

I think of the words of the John Meyer song, "Lightning strikes inside my chest to keep me up at night. Dreams of ways to make you understand my pain".